A Share in Death (10 page)

Raskin gave him a considering look. “Scotland Yard going to be ‘helping us with our inquiries’?”

“Could be. All very politely and politically done, of course.”

“Of course,” Raskin responded, and they grinned at each other in complete understanding. “All right,” prompted Raskin, “could you tell me, sir? Just what sort of dirt did the ever-curious Mr. Wade dig up?”

Kincaid stretched out his legs and contemplated the toes of his trainers meditatively. “There were files on a number of guests who must own other weeks, but I think it would be practical to assume that we should concentrate on those who are here this week. Somehow Sebastian came across a rumor circulating in Dedham village that Emma and Penny MacKenzie helped their dear old dad to a speedier end than nature intended.” Raskin looked startled but didn’t interrupt. “He was diabetic and they administered his insulin themselves—they could have increased his dosage a bit.”

“I suppose it’s possible. I’ve heard more unlikely stories. Next prospect?”

“Graham Frazer. It seems that he’s been carrying on a very torrid affair with Cassie Whitlake—a situation that doesn’t appear to be too damaging to either of them, except that Frazer is involved in a bitter custody battle over Angela and any misconduct might provide ammunition to be used against him. Those are Sebastian’s assumptions, by the way. He was very thorough.

“He also noted a growing sense of marital discord between the Rennies. That’s all on this lot—except a note of an old drug conviction against Maureen Hunsinger.”

Raskin spluttered. “Our Lady of the Earth? I thought nothing unnatural ever passed her lips.”

Kincaid grinned at his reaction. “It’s really not too unlikely. The natural foods movement is in some ways an outgrowth of the hippie culture of the sixties and seventies, and this conviction was twenty years old. How Sebastian found out about it I can’t imagine.”

“What about the others?” Raskin asked.

“This is the first visit for Hannah Alcock and the Lyles. Maybe he hadn’t come up with anything.”

“The same is true of the MacKenzies,” Raskin reminded him.

Kincaid frowned. “That’s something to consider. I wonder how he got hold of that little story.”

“Nothing on your cousin?” Raskin’s eyebrow tilted at a wicked angle.

“No, thank god,” Kincaid said with relief. “Jack was clean as a whistle. That would have put me in a spot.”

“And who,” said Raskin deliberately, “would you put your money on as the blackmail victim?”

Kincaid didn’t answer for a moment. He gazed at the silent bulk of the house, and when he spoke it was almost inaudibly. “Oddly enough, no one. I’m not sure Sebastian was blackmailing anyone. At least not for money. It looked like he kept a file on almost every owner. Mostly harmless stuff—almost like character studies. Maybe he only wanted emotional leverage.” Kincaid rubbed his face with his palms. “I don’t know … I’m riding completely on gut reaction. I just can’t see him as an extortionist.”

“I can imagine what my chief would have to say about that. He doesn’t go in much for gut reaction. Uses his for putting away beer.”

“I’ll bet.” Kincaid laughed, feeling restored by Raskin’s easy humor. “And speaking of your chief, I think I’ll make myself scarce for the afternoon, until my Guv’nor
has had a chance to drop a few stones in the pond. Otherwise Nash might just run me in. Think I’ll do a bit of hiking. I am, after all,” Kincaid said ruefully, “supposed to be on holiday.”

*   *   *

The sight of Emma MacKenzie on the bench above the tennis court made Kincaid detour from his course toward the back of the garden. She peered intently at the tree tops through her binoculars, her concentration undisturbed even when Kincaid sat down beside her. He waited silently, following her gaze, and after a moment he saw a flash of red. “Blast. Lost it,” said Emma, lowering the binoculars.

“What was it?”

“A male bullfinch. Common enough but don’t often see them. They’re very shy.”

“I’ve never watched birds,” Kincaid offered. “Must be interesting.”

Emma gave him a pitying look, as if at a loss to explain a lifetime passion to one who could make such an innocuous remark. “Hmmmf.” She looked away from him, her gaze drawn to the trees. “An art. You should try it.” She thrust the binoculars at him. “Take them. I’m going in for the afternoon, worst time of day.”

“I will.” Kincaid took the binoculars and lowered the strap carefully over his head. “Thanks. I thought I might climb Sutton Bank.” He hesitated, then said as neutrally as he could, “Miss MacKenzie, did you talk much with Sebastian?”

Emma had been making gathering motions, as if to rise. She paused, then settled herself more comfortably on the bench. “He seemed an intelligent boy, but difficult. Quick to take things as slights, I’d say, under all that quick, sly patter.” She was silent for a moment,
considering. “He could be kind, though. He was kind to Angela Frazer. I think he saw her as some sort of fellow outcast, always on the fringe of her father’s doings. And he seemed to despise Graham Frazer. I don’t know why. He was kind to the younger children as well, thought up activities for them, things that would amuse them. He seemed comfortable with them.”

“Kind to children and animals,” Kincaid muttered, more to himself than Emma. Her spine tensed and she inhaled sharply. He could see all her barriers going up and he cursed himself for his tactlessness. “No, no, I’m not ridiculing you,” he said quickly. “I found I liked him, too, even on such short acquaintance, and rather in spite of myself. And,” he added, with an easy smile, “you’re very perceptive.”

Emma had relaxed again, but he sensed that the flow had stopped. To press her would only activate her conscience, and she would censor any inclination to indulge in ‘idle gossip’.

“What should I look for?” he asked, gesturing with the binoculars.

“You wouldn’t know a robin from a magpie, I imagine. You’d better borrow this”—she handed him a small, well-worn guidebook—“so that you will have a reference. Just be observant. I shouldn’t think that watching birds would be all that different from watching people. Oh, yes,” she said, noting his surprised glance. “You’re very practiced. A talent partly learned and partly natural, I should think. You inspire confidence in others with that air of sincere attention to every word, a little well-judged flattery. And I had better go before I say something I shouldn’t.” With that, she pushed herself off the bench and strode toward the house without a backward glance.

The footpath crossed a small stream at the back of the grounds, then turned abruptly right to follow the stream toward Sutton Bank. It was easy walking at first, cool under the overhanging branches, the ground padded with leaf litter and crunching acorns. Boughs heavy with horse-chestnuts drooped overhead, and twice Kincaid saw crimson toadstools among the fallen leaves, bright as drops of blood. There were no birds. The wood remained eerily still and silent.

He eventually came out into the sunlight and began to climb. The binoculars thumped regularly against his chest with each step, a second heartbeat. Blackberry brambles growing into the path scratched his hands and snagged his clothes. He paused every so often to extricate himself. As he neared the summit, Kincaid felt almost overcome by drowsiness, the sun and the dusty, pollen-laden air affecting his senses like a drug. He came across a patch of brown brake fern to the side of the path, trampled and flattened as though someone else had lain there. It was irresistible. Kincaid stretched out among the dying fronds and went instantly to sleep.

A shadow across his face woke him. It took his confused
brain a second to sort out the images his eyes sent it—huge red and yellow barred wings hovered above him, and a human face suspended between them peered down at him. A hang glider. Bloody hell. Sutton Bank, he remembered reading in the brochures provided by the timeshare, was a popular spot for hang gliders, but the damn thing had nearly scared him out of his wits.

Kincaid sat up and watched the glider descend toward Followdale House, then raised Emma’s binoculars and focused them on the car park. Hannah’s metallic Citroën turned in the gate and stopped on the gravel, and her small form, distant and unrecognizable except for some quality of posture, made its way to the door. He lowered the glasses and stretched, then rested his elbows on his propped-up knees. The combination of deep sleep and sudden awakening had cleared his head like a tonic, leaving his mind remarkably sharp and focused.

The whole bloody business didn’t make sense, not from what he knew so far. He couldn’t for a minute see either of the MacKenzie sisters committing premeditated murder. Reluctant euthanasia, possibly, but killing someone to cover their deed up, never. He could, however, easily imagine them shielding someone else in a mistaken sense of duty or obligation.

Had Sebastian threatened to expose Cassie’s affair with Graham? That would certainly explain the conversation he had overheard. But if that were the case, why would either of them care enough to kill him to prevent it? The timeshare management might not approve of Cassie sleeping with the owners, but surely her behavior wouldn’t be that damaging.

And Graham? Kincaid didn’t believe custody judges expected divorced fathers to remain celibate. Besides,
he’d wager Angela knew exactly what was going on, if not all the intimate details. She was a good bit sharper than her dad credited. So if Cassie and Graham were together the night of Sebastian’s death, why hadn’t they alibied one another?

Kincaid sighed. He didn’t have enough information for even these vague suppositions. Gemma might turn up something, but he couldn’t depend on it. There was no alternative he could see but to stretch his already untenable position a little farther. He couldn’t go back to his holiday resolution, blithely ignoring the whole matter. He had an unhealthy tendency, probably necessary to his job, of worrying at a thing like someone putting a tongue to a sore tooth—the more it hurt, the harder it was to leave it alone.

But there was something more, a sense that the script played on untended, heedless of his puny actions.

Enough. Kincaid stood up abruptly. He’d be reading Camus and crying in his beer if he went on like this. It was time he did some more digging of his own.

*   *   *

The cocktail hour drew Followdale’s guests like the curious at the scene of an accident. They came, Kincaid thought, overcoming their distaste, their self-preserving instinct for gossip stronger than their discomfort in one another’s company.

Discomfort wasn’t exactly the noun Kincaid would have chosen to describe the tableau presented by the M.P., Patrick Rennie, and Hannah. They stood before the mantelpiece in animated conversation, seemingly unaware of the bodies milling about them. Rennie looked elegantly casual, his gleaming pale hair accentuated by
the teal blue of his pullover. Cashmere, thought Kincaid, it had to be cashmere. Nothing else would do. Hannah laughed, her face turned up to Rennie’s, her expression almost jubilant.

Kincaid stood still in the doorway, feeling childishly, ridiculously, slighted. How absurd. They had enjoyed each other’s company, nothing more. He had no claim on Hannah’s attention, or affections.

He made for the bar, turning a bland smile on Maureen as he passed, determined to reach the bar before she could buttonhole him. Beer tonight, he thought. The bar’s whiskey was best kept for medicinal purposes. He poured a pint of dark ale and conscientiously clinked his money into the bowl.

Marta Rennie sat alone at one of the small, round tables in the bar area, its glossy faux-wood surface marred by moisture rings and cigarette ashes. She took a fierce drag on a cigarette. Under the table her foot tapped with a convulsive rhythm. Suffering a few pangs of jealousy of her own, thought Kincaid. Nothing made a better prospect for damaging slips of the tongue than the proverbial woman scorned, and Kincaid set out to take full advantage.

“Mind if I join you?” Kincaid gave her a smile.

“Suit yourself.” Her nasal vowels were as flat and disinterested as the look she gave him. Kincaid slid a stool back and eased onto it before drinking off some of his beer. Marta continued to smoke, her eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance, and Kincaid took his time, studying her. In coloring and feature she might have been her husband’s sister rather than his wife, and Kincaid always suspected more than a hint of narcissism in those
who chose physical mirror images of themselves as mates. But at close quarters Marta’s well-bred polish was marred by the stench of stale tobacco.

“I was surprised to see such a crowd tonight. You’d have thought the circumstances would have been a bit dampening.” Kincaid’s weak conversational gambit elicited no response at all. This night wouldn’t make records for boosting his ego. Marta ground her cigarette out in the cheap tin ashtray and sipped her drink with a not-quite-steady hand. It looked like pure gin, or vodka, and Kincaid realized Marta Rennie was well on her way to tying one on.

When she did speak it surprised him. “Fifteen years. Must have at least fifteen years on him.” Kincaid could hear the slight slur in her voice now, the exaggerated sibilants.

“Who does?”

“That scientist …” She lapsed into silence again. A pale yellow silk scarf had replaced the black velvet bow at the nape of her neck. The scarf’s soft bow had come half undone and hung, bedraggled, down her back.

“You mean Hannah?”

“He’s so bloody impressed. With her ‘accomplishments’.” Marta sneered the word. “But he didn’t want a professional wife. Oh, no, charity work … somebody to sit next to him at banquets and look nice. A wife to trot out on speaking platforms like a prize pony at a gymkhana. Bloody useless.” She held her drink up and squinted into its depths as if it, crystal ball-like, contained some redemption.

“I’m sure your husband appreciates what you do for him.”

“Like hell.” Marta lit another cigarette. “Though I
dare say,” she continued through a cloud of smoke, “he does appreciate Mummy and Daddy pouring money into his campaign fund.”

Kincaid decided subtlety would be wasted on Marta in her present condition. “I hear,” he leaned toward her and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “that Inspector Nash isn’t happy with the suicide verdict on Sebastian. It’s a good thing you and Patrick were together that night. Now there’s a thing that could really cause him image problems with those conservative constituents.”